For the past decade, while I worked on a novel, I clung to a lie. On most days, I recited this lie, out loud, as if praying, hoping to relax the panic that held me in its grip for much of that time, and still hasn’t let me go. It kept me writing, the lie, though it’s about to fall apart. I’ll let no one read this book, I told myself. It’s still what I’m saying. I’m writing this just days before the novel will publish. I think of that fact, which is inexorable, and panic’s harsh grip closes tight again. [time-brightcove not-tgx=”true”] I’ve spoken with friends and, at times, in public about this novel-incited panic. If asked what I’m afraid of, I’ve offered multiple explanations,
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